Again the Stars
by How Like a Winter
Summary: The story of Arcade's slavery, from the day of his purchase until the last time he picks up the scalpel. "As Arcade later discovered, the Courier sold him for the mere sum of ten golden coins - far too small a price..."
1. Chapter 1

"_Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."  
__**la**__**Divina Commedia**_**, Inferno, Canto III**

**I**.

Although he would hardly consider himself a religious man, Arcade had always believed in Hell. In fact, he believed that it was much closer than most people ever guessed. Those in the employment of the Legion could access it whenever they so desired by catching a ride on one of the boats from Cottonwood Cove to Caesar's Fort. Months before a certain day that he never could erase from his memory, Arcade had followed the Courier into the Inferno, comparing Mark to Virgil, and inquired as to the reasons for their little excursion. The Courier had told Arcade that he just wanted to satisfy his curiosity by hearing Caesar out, and he promised they would leave at once and forget the whole thing. The Courier promised a lot of things.

As Arcade later discovered, the Courier sold him for the mere sum of ten golden coins, which Arcade considered to be far too small a price. Judas had sold Jesus for thirty denarii, and that had given Judas a one-way ticket to the lowest circle of Hell, reserved for traitors. According to Dante, the Courier had earned himself a similar place in the afterlife. Immersion in such literary comparisons could not successfully distract Arcade from the matters at hand, but it did help him pass the time. During the journey from Cottonwood Cove, Arcade recited Dante's verses in his mind and compared the captain of the ship to Charon, the creature who ferried souls to the underworld.

The legionnaires turned their heads in the opposite direction when Arcade looked up at them, and he wondered if they had been ordered not to acknowledge him, and why Caesar would command such a thing. When Arcade so much as twitched a finger, all eyes swung to him at once, warned against any sudden movements.

His stomach growled, and he resisted the urge to cringe when the Legionnaires glared at him. He hadn't eaten since…had it really been two days since his last meal with the Courier? Mark had barely touched the iguana. _"You gonna eat that?"_ At the sound of Arcade's voice, Mark had snapped his head up and shrugged before he resumed his attempts to stare down the letter in his hands. He'd refused to tell Arcade the contents of the letter, which was alright, but the dark change in his mood suggested otherwise.

When Mark stood up from the campfire, he shifted all his weight onto his left foot, hopping forward as he bit his lip against the pain. Arcade noticed, of course.

"Hey, uh, are you positive that you don't want a stimpack? That little encounter with the Deathclaws was pretty rough."

"I don't need chems." His tone dared Arcade to argue with him, and Arcade couldn't withhold a shiver as it skirted up his spine. Mark's words had reminded Arcade far too much of the Legion's philosophy, and Mark hadn't always rejected stimpacks, Med-X, or even a Psycho here and there. That, Arcade reflected, should have told him all he needed to know about the Courier. As Mark limped forward, he called back, "Coming?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Midnight had long past, and Arcade had figured that Mark intended to set up camp after they had eaten. Apparently not. Before, he had fought exhaustion with the hope that they would soon rest, but then his heart thumped faster as he watched Mark struggle to walk. Even Rex wagged his tail and barked at Mark, who ignored the anxious dog. _All signs point to danger_, Arcade thought, and rubbed at his eyes.

They arrived at Cottonwood Cove at some ungodly time, right at sunrise, and Arcade winced when he saw that Mark had broken the skin on his lip. "You know, your—" Before Arcade could finish, Mark wiped the blood off his lip and kept walking. The legionnaires didn't tense up when they saw Mark, as they had during their first trip to the Cove, and Arcade wondered, why were they so comfortable with the sight of the Courier? He _knew_ this was wrong, but before he could voice his concern, two legionnaires had grabbed each of his arms.

"Hands off," he said, trying to twist away. His attempts only provoked them to grip harder, clawing into his skin. Possibilities rushed through Arcade's mind—Caesar had betrayed them, ordered that they be captured, and Mark was about to shoot them down where they stood—yet none of the other legionnaires had moved, and neither had Mark. "What the hell is going on?"

"Get him out of here," said the soldier, and Arcade watched as soldiers surrounded Mark and helped him to limp away.

As Mark disappeared into a tent, Arcade called, "Mark, are you insane?"

As Rex yelped louder and more frantically, Arcade slipped his hand over his gun, and a third soldier seized the weapon. Though Arcade shut his eyes and thrashed about, he could not overpower all of them at once, and they forced him still. The legionnaires forced Arcade's hands behind his back and he pulled harder when he felt the rough texture of a rope being tied around his hands. As he struggled, another soldier thrust a spear in his face, so close that his eyes couldn't focus.

"You can choose whether to go peacefully or not," said the soldier. "Caesar wants you in one piece, but we'll do what whatever is necessary. Can somebody shut that dog up?"

Leaping up at Arcade's side, Rex had begun to howl, and finally the soldier shoved him to the ground with the blunt side of his spear. "For what, exactly, does _Caesar_ want me?" said Arcade, emphasizing the hard _C_ in the hopes that the legionnaires would not hear the tremble in his words.

"You talk too much," said the soldier, just as the two behind Arcade knotted the rope. As they yanked it taut around Arcade's wrists, he tried and failed to swallow a gasp of pain. "Caesar believes that you may be of use to him."

Arcade couldn't speak, couldn't even find words. As his stomach twisted into knots like the rope around his wrist, he kicked the soldier in the chest and laughed uncontrollably, so hard that he couldn't breathe. The soldier swore and struck the side of Arcade's head with his spear, and everything faded into darkness as pain exploded his head.

The legionnaires detained him in their camp for a day before finally getting him on the ship to the Fort. They'd kept him on the floor of a tent, arms ever bound, still not untied even after they'd brought him on the boat. His head continued to throb, and they'd almost had to knock him out again when he tried to flee. His arms ached, straining for release from their confines. A rational voice in his brain whispered for him to remain calm and observe his surroundings, analyze them for a possible escape, but pain and fear overwhelmed any attempt at coherent thought.

"_Caesar wants you_—" the words echoed in Arcade's ears, and he turned them over and over in his mind. He supposed that it was better for Caesar to want him in _one_ piece, rather than several, but he much preferred the days when Caesar wanted no part of him at all.

Arcade and the legionnaires were not the only passengers en route to Hell. A dark-skinned woman with wrinkles at the corner of her eyes huddled against the side of the boat, hands also bound behind her, and she would not stop staring at Arcade. He guessed that she must be a slave, perhaps one who tried to run off, as Arcade surmised from the legionnaire's comments about possible punishments. "It's been too long since I've seen a crucifixion," one said, and she closed her eyes.

The boat had docked at Caesar's Fort by nightfall. The men "escorted" Arcade into the Fort, and Arcade glanced up at the sky to see that it still retained the harsh, gray tone that he remembered so fondly from his last visit. Perhaps Caesar ruled the skies too, and he had ordered them to enhance the gloom.

_That doesn't make any sense_, Arcade reprimanded himself, just as he noticed that even the legionnaires passing him had stopped to observe as his guards led him through the Fort. As he squared his shoulders and attempted to at least walk with a hint of some dignity, he realized that the soldiers were actually staring at the woman with him, who apparently would be brought before Caesar as well. "No one escapes Caesar," some called out, or they complimented the soldiers who had found her. "Fiat justitia," some said—_let justice be done._ Arcade sighed at how they degraded the ancient language simply by speaking it, and even that small movement relaxed him somewhat. At least, it was easier to suppress the urge to rip the rope off his hands, or try to.

At the Fort, slaves stumbled under the loads on their backs, which seemed to swallow them whole. Crosses loomed over Arcade and the guards, who walked in their shadows, and Arcade's heart skipped a beat as he realized that Caesar might be planning to crucify him. The legionnaires were certainly enthusiastic about the idea, the sick bastards. They smirked at the sight of the crosses, and Arcade's fingers itched to grab one of those spears and attack them, and cut himself loose.

_Crucifixion_…he could not even stomach the possibility.

To distract himself, he thought back to the events of the past few days. According to Mark, Caesar was in some kind of trouble, a threat to his life, but Mark hadn't specified the danger. If Mark intended to help Caesar, he certainly would have been in a hurry. How long ago, Arcade wondered, had Mark allied with Caesar? When they first entered the fort, Mark told Arcade that he simply wished to hear Caesar out and leave immediately, but the guards hadn't allowed Arcade inside that tent... There, Caesar must have persuaded Mark. Perhaps Caesar had promised him something—Mark was always willing to do anything for caps, and Arcade almost smiled as he remembered the various jobs Mark would perform for just a few caps from the Crimson Caravan and the Van Graff family. Or maybe Caesar had threatened Mark, although Arcade could hardly believe that anyone would even try that. The man was huge, with the muscles of a Super Mutant, and he could snipe a radroach when Arcade only saw it as a speck on the horizon.

They arrived at Caesar's tent, and this time, no one told Arcade to wait outside. They prodded him in with the tips of their guns as if he were some kind of Brahmin heading for the slaughterhouse.

_Caesar's made himself a throne_, Arcade noted. _Charming._ A man in a plaid suit sat on his knees, hands chained, on the right side of the room. _Benny_.

A soldier thrust Arcade down, and he collapsed on his knees like Benny before Caesar. The leader of the Legion sat forward in his throne with the confidence of Achilles, hands clasped together thoughtfully. Arcade forced himself to meet Caesar's eyes, determined to conceal his terror from Caesar. "Ah, you must be Arcade."

"And you're Caesar, if I'm not mistaken. Can we make this quick? Things to do, places to be; you know how it is." Even as he finished the words, Arcade grimaced. Perhaps sarcasm wasn't the wisest choice, and he was a little rusty after days without a real conversation with anyone, but it had always been his default mode of defense.

The older man's forehead creased in a sea of wrinkles that attested to his age, but the corners of his mouth just barely turned upwards in a smile. "Mark mentioned that you had a mouth on you." His voice, still tinged with a Vegas accent, didn't sound at all like Arcade expected. _Mark mentioned that you had a mouth on you_…Caesar spoke as if he'd been dealing with Mark for ages.

Arcade's voice was not shaking—it was _not_, and even the thought was ridiculous—when he replied, "I'm sure he did."

"Most people would be throwing themselves at my feet in fear. You're certainly an interesting one. As much as I'd like to teach you some respect, that will have to wait. The fact is, I need you to do something for me, and I need you to do it as soon as possible."

"Hey, anything I can do to help the Legion. Just say the word."

"Lucius, why don't you come over here and show Arcade here the reward for disrespect? Nothing too harsh; he is a newcomer, after all."

Lucius didn't have a weapon, but he looked enough like one. Before Caesar even finished his order, the soldier stepped forward, his arm snaking out to grab Arcade around the throat. His fingers tightened like a noose. "You will speak to Caesar with respect, or I'll have gagged." He released Arcade, who coughed and gulped in air, unable to reply even if he wanted to.

"Listen, Arcade, Mark tells me you're quite the doctor." Despite Arcade's urge to interrupt, _Actually, I mostly just do research_, he didn't dare say another word. "That's just what I happen to need. Now, if you refuse to treat me, there's a cross waiting for you outside. But those who prove useful to me are always rewarded."

"Rewarded?"

"With your life, for one thing. I could never kill the man who cured me. We'll work out the details later, but know that you'll certainly die a slower, more painful death if you refuse." Arcade didn't doubt that. "There's something in my head—a tumor, the books call it. I want it out, understood?"

There was only one conceivable answer, so Arcade nodded.

"Perfect. And just in case you get any ideas, know that failure is punishable by death. My men have no use for a doctor who kills his patient, whether by accident or otherwise."

_Dammit_. Hopefully the tumor wasn't inoperable, or Arcade was screwed. The Legion would still exist without Caesar, and they'd be angry. If Caesar ended up dead, Arcade would too, and all for nothing. He could only hope that Caesar wasn't lying about that reward.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked suddenly.

The question surprised Arcade. "Uh, a couple nights ago, I guess."

Caesar nodded. "I suspected as much. And I'm not too keen on the idea of an exhausted surgeon with my life in his hands. Lucius, get him an empty tent and have someone less important, maybe Titus, keep an eye on him until morning. Get a slave to bring him a meal fit for a king."

Seizing one of Arcade's arms, Lucius hauled Arcade to his feet and led him out of Caesar's tent. When they walked through the Fort, Arcade stumbled as hunger and exhaustion dragged at his limbs. His head was spinning, and Lucius had to yank Arcade out of the path of a passing slave. Tired as he was, though, Arcade didn't forget to look up at the sky. While he hardly considered himself an authority on astrology, he had memorized the Zodiac, and glanced up for the reassurance that the constellations were exactly where they should be, despite the uncertainty of his own situation. But when he did look up, he realized that he could not see the stars. The clouds above the Fort were too dark, and they shrouded the sky defiantly.

Lucius stopped at one of the tents, empty except for a couple of bedrolls, and Arcade set his jaw as he felt Lucius untying the rope around his wrists. As soon as it was off, Arcade rubbed his arms, wincing as pain spiked through the red stripes left behind by the rope. "If you try to leave," Lucius said, "you will be killed." Arcade had no idea if that meant crucifixion or not, but he wasn't about to test the Legion.

For only a few minutes, Lucius left the room, and then another soldier appeared at the entrance of the tent. A young girl, perhaps not yet beyond her teenage years, laid a stone plate and cup at Arcade's feet. Without a second thought, he sat on the bedroll and bit off the end of the squirrel on a stick before he even had time to see what it was. Somehow, they had also given him purified water, and it soothed his dry throat.

They had offered so much food that he didn't eat more than half, aware that it would be easy to overindulge and make himself sick later. Only when he was satisfied did he stop and look up. The girl was staring at the plate, and Arcade wondered, with a pang of guilt, when she had last eaten. Holding out the plate, he said, "Finish it, will you?"

Her eyes widened a fraction, and she shook her head. "No, really," he insisted. "No purpose in wasting it."

At that, she glanced up to Titus, who shrugged his shoulders, He looked uncertain, and Arcade remembered that Caesar had asked for someone "less important." Obviously, this man did not have the experience of someone like Lucius, and Arcade noted that fact. Surely it could come in handy later. The girl bent over the plate, her face shrouded by a mass of dirty hair, and she choked down everything Arcade had left behind. "Thanks," she said, and nearly fled from the tent under the legionnaire's scrutiny.

Settling into the bedroll, Arcade wished that Titus would go somewhere else or at least stop staring, as if he expected Arcade to pull a knife out of the air. Under other circumstances, Arcade might have commented on it, but for once, he wasn't in the mood to talk any more than he had to. None of this was Titus' doing, anyway. Despite the dread swelling in the pit of his stomach, fatigue dragged at Arcade's limbs and soon pulled him into sleep.

When Titus awoke him, Arcade's bedroll was sticky and sweaty, the sheets clinging to him. He couldn't remember his dreams, but they couldn't have been good, and the sun had not yet risen yet. Although Caesar had said that he wanted a well-rested surgeon, Arcade figured that he could have only slept for a couple of hours, interrupted by fitful nightmares.

It took a great deal of effort for him to hide how nervous he was. He barely touched breakfast, thinking all the while about the safest way to operate on Caesar. The Legion had never employed doctors, so Arcade could hardly expect to find any legitimate medical equipment unless Caesar had been planning this for some time, and that wasn't likely enough for Arcade to count on it. While he did enjoy a good challenge, he didn't particularly like the thought of his entire life being at stake if he were to fail. Not that failure was a possibility, of course, or so he told himself.

As Titus led him through the maze of tents to Caesar's, Arcade spotted a slave exiting one of the legionnaire's tents. It was the dark-skinned woman who had tried to escape. She held her head up high as she passed the men.

Once at Caesar's tent, Lucius dismissed Titus and assumed guard duty over Arcade. "Remember," he said, "the Legion does not abide failure."

Arcade nodded, his mind already in the operating room. Lucius escorted him there, where Caesar lay on a queen-sized bed, an Auto-Doc at its foot. With a snort, Arcade rolled his eyes at the prospect of stooping to the level of using such a machine to perform such a delicate operation.

Someone had provided tools, at least, and the sight of them calmed Arcade. His shoulders sagged as he wrapped his fingers around the scalpel, an anchor to something familiar. Something he could control. Ironically, he was about to cut Caesar's head open, although unfortunately he also planned to sew it back up when the tumor was out. His fingers shook with anticipation until Arcade held the scalpel level with Caesar's head. There, his whole body steadied, and he exhaled slowly. With every breath, he released tension, until he was ready to begin.

When Caesar was sutured up and the tumor disposed of, Arcade stepped away from the bed. "I'm done. He'll be asleep for a few hours, and wake up a new man. In the medical sense, that is."

"Took you long enough," Lucius snarled. "You'd better be right."

"I'm always right," Arcade said wearily, suddenly exhausted. He'd been so afraid, for so long, he was completely worn out. The lack of sleep wasn't helping, probably.

Without another word, Lucius walked Arcade away from Caeesar's tent. The sun, already descending from the top of the sky, confirmed Arcade's suspicion that the surgery had taken many hours to complete. On the way back, Arcade spotted a crucifix, one that he had not seen before. The dark-skinned slave who had tried to escape was hanging from the cross, and he almost stopped walking, suddenly cold through his flesh all the way to his bones.

Once at Arcade's tent, Lucius summoned a slave to bring more food. Although Arcade didn't realize his hunger until the slave arrived with squirrel stew and Sunset Sarsaparilla, he ate with the same ravenous speed as he had the previous day. He recognized the slave from the previous day, but she did not return his gaze. When he offered the remainders of the stew, she started to accept, but drew her hand back when Lucius grunted in warning. She swept the bowl and spoon up and disappeared from the tent.

This time, the soldiers allowed Arcade to rest until he could rest no longer. The uncertainty of his fate and pain of Mark's betrayal hung over him like an illness, poisoning all the dreams that floated up while he slept, but his body was physically spent. Despite his anxiety, he did not awaken for nine hours, the most time he had rested all at once since he'd agreed to travel with Mark. He dreamed of Mark, that they were gallivanting around the Wasteland again, before Mark had ever journeyed to Cottonwood Cove and Caesar was just a distant threat.

When Arcade sat up from the bedroll, Titus rose from where he had been sitting at the entrance to the tent. "Caesar has requested that you see him immediately."

Yawning, Arcade raked his fingers through his hair and smoothed it back. "Can he wait until I'm presentable?" There was no saving his hair, he decided, peering through the reflection in his glasses. He had removed his lab coat and tunic when he slept, but there was no way he could put them back on again now, stained with dirt and sweat. "I apologize if this causes any inconvenience, but I really can't appear before Caesar like this. It could almost be considered disrespect."

"Is this some kind of trick?" said Titus, eyes narrowed fiercely as one hand drifted to the weapon at his side. Choking back a laugh, Arcade shook his head, and Titus called for a slave to bring a fresh tunic, pants, and underclothes. The slave that came was unusually young, or else her body hadn't caught up to her age, and she skipped into the tent with an enthusiasm that Arcade had yet to see in any of the other slaves. At the sight of Titus, though, she shrank away from the tent as soon as Arcade took the clothes from her.

"A little privacy?" asked Arcade as he pulled his shirt over his head.

"Don't push it," said Titus, and Arcade shrugged. After all, he couldn't win everything.

Instinct urged Arcade to turn away as he undressed, but the soldiers were probably used to having little or no privacy. He didn't want to give Titus any reason to be suspicious, not with the heavy penalties that could come with that. Besides, Titus was only waiting impatiently, and watching Arcade because he'd been ordered to do so. When Arcade was dressed, he wiped his lenses clean with the cloth of the tunic and announced, with some reluctance, that he was ready.

Since Arcade had finished the operation and rested in the late afternoon, he had awoken in the early morning hours. Out of habit, his eyes flickered up to the sky, but only saw the murky clouds. The sun could barely penetrate the overcast sky, and at night, the moon and stars didn't have a chance.

They reached Caesar's tent, where he sat in his throne, and Arcade said, "I seem to remember suggesting that you remain in bed. Are you experiencing any discomfort?"

With a wave of his hand, Caesar dismissed the question. "No, I'm fine. You did good work. And that's what I've called you here to talk about."

"Of course. Well, if it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate it if I could get going. Things to do, places to be."

Caesar smiled, resting his head on a fist and looking up at Arcade. "Don't count on leaving this Fort anytime soon. Do you know why I haven't had my men kill you yet, Arcade?"

"I assumed that you couldn't bear to part with my charming personality, or perhaps my scathing wit."

"While I do value those things, I expect that you'd rather die than serve me."

"Is that a recent discovery, or a long-term observation?"

"Not a lot of people would dare speak to me like that. In that way, you prove your bravery, above any other slave or soldier. Or you're just that desperate to die."

"I don't know, death never seemed very pleasant to me. I've watched enough men face it unprepared."

"Then have no fear, Arcade. I will never kill you. Unless I have to crucify you, in which case you'll of course be very well prepared."

"Sorry to change the subject, but can we get back to what you said earlier, about leaving the Fort? The Legion forbids the use of medication, and while I understand that your situation did warrant an exception, I fail to see how I could be of any use to here. Why even waste the energy of killing me? Let me go, and you'll never have to deal with me again." The word sounded desperate even to his own ears, but then, he _was_ desperate.

"Ah, but Arcade, why would I want you gone? It's a long road to recovery, and who's to say that I'll never need medical care again? Where could I ever find a physician with the expertise, and, most importantly, the results? Besides, I paid good money for you."

"Excuse me, could you repeat that again? I've yet to receive any caps, or, as you would say, a denarius. Of course, if you let me go, feel free to keep your payment."

When Caesar laughed out loud, Lucius narrowed his eyes, apparently not expecting the sound. "It was quite the bargain, too. I never expected you to be a source of entertainment as well." _That can't be good_, Arcade thought; being referred to as a "source of entertainment" by any legionnaire, especially Caesar, was a compliment no one wanted to hear. "I have to apologize," Caesar continued. "I'm afraid I wasn't totally honest with you earlier. See, the Courier sold you to me in exchange for ten denarii. I'm pleased to see that it was a wise investment. From now on, you'll be my personal physician, and I'll be very surprised if I don't find other uses for you as well."

Arcade laughed. It was a short huff at which the surrounding legionnaires curled their fingers, unused to the sound, but Caesar did not blink. He sat like a statue, perfectly poised, and studied Arcade with eyes that never wavered. Arcade shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Caesar to finally speak again. "Consider yourself lucky. You'll always have a guard, of course, but you'll sleep in a tent of your own, unlike my other slaves." He lingered on the last word, and Arcade bristled. The legionnaires glanced at one another in surprise, or perhaps amusement. Arcade could not quite interpret the looks and, knowing that his every move was being watched, his eyes flickered back to meet Caesar's. At once, Caesar added, "You have a lot to learn. I'm your master now, and you'll lower your gaze at all times."

His face flushed with humiliation as he fixed his eyes on Caesar's feet. "How soon can I expect a raise?"

"Ah, yes, I can see we're going to get along just fine. You're certainly sharper than most of my…more physically inclined soldiers. I've missed battling wits ever since my days with the Followers. You were once a member of the Followers too, if I'm not mistaken. We're not so different, you and I."

"You'd be surprised." Arcade wasn't thinking now, or feeling. He said whatever came to mind as bile rose in his throat, and his stomach turned. Just the word _slave_—and to none other than Caesar—serving the Legion—how was he going to survive—

"Lucius, get this slave to shut the hell up."

The man's speed was admirable. Just as Arcade parted his lips to speak, a blow struck the right side of his face, and his head snapped away as he blinked back the water that sprung to his eyes.

"After you've been Caesar for long enough," Caesar continued, "nothing much comes as a surprise anymore. But then, I never expected you to be so entertaining. As I said, Mark was right about you." Caesar rubbed his eyes, and sighed. "Guess I'm not back to full strength yet. Lucius, have Titus watch the slave. Have him treated well, give him food if he asks for it. Give him one of the women as a reward for his good work. The man saved my life, after all. But if he does anything stupid, doesn't hesitate to use force."

_One of the women._Arcade desperately hoped that Lucius would ignore that part, or Arcade was about to be in a very awkward situation indeed. When they left Caesar's tent, there wasn't much activity around the Fort at that hour; after all, the sun hadn't even risen yet. But as they walked, Arcade saw a familiar face speaking with one of the soldiers. "Mark?" he said, just to be sure. "_Et tu, mi amiga_?"

As Lucius tugged at Arcade's arm, Mark tightened his lips in a thin line. "Arcade."

"Don't speak to the Courier," said Lucius.

Ignoring the soldier, Arcade said to Mark, "Hey, was it always your plan to sell me into slavery to Caesar, or was that a spur-of-the-moment thing? Why don't you make like Odysseus and get lost?"

Lucius barked out a harsh laugh, and Arcade bit his tongue. What had he expected to gain from that remark? Oh, that would show Mark, make him sorry. But Mark didn't mock Arcade, or so much as smirk. He nodded at Arcade said, "I have."

It took Arcade a moment to realize what Mark was saying, but he wasn't sure if he cared. "Tell Rex goodbye for me, will you? That is, unless you've sold him too."

Before Mark could respond, Lucius yanked Arcade away, pulling him along to his tent. The legionnaire shoved Arcade to the ground and kicked him on his side. As Arcade grunted, Lucius said, "Despite what you may think, you are under my orders as well. You will not disobey me again." Arcade pulled himself up, clutching the arm where Lucius had kicked him as Lucius continued, "You'll stay here until Caesar needs you again."

Titus was already there, awaiting Arcade's return. "He shouldn't be any trouble, but he's invaluable to Caesar." When Titus inclined his head in a silent question, Lucius sighed. "If anything happens to him, you're dead. Do you understand that? Oh, and Caesar wants him rewarded. Let him have one of the women."

Something twisted in his chest. He was almost sick. It hadn't quite sunk in before, but now Arcade realized that they could do anything to him. Anything at all. This wasn't a joke, this wasn't a minor annoyance. He was a prisoner. Despite his hatred for Caesar and his policies, Caesar was actually more amused by this than anything else, and besides all of that, Caesar had paid good money for Arcade. The implications of Caesar actually paying ten golden coins for Arcade deeply shook him, not because the amount was especially large or small, but because Caesar had wanted him at all. Clearly, Caesar did not intend to waste the money he'd spent by losing his temper when Arcade provoked him with simple words. The man was just as sharp as Arcade in many ways. Certainly, he was smart enough to see behind Arcade's desperate bait, and he realized that Arcade was practically begging for the easy way out.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the dirty air and determined to hold back the tears, but he couldn't control the violent trembling in his body any longer and he didn't try. He'd learned the hard way that while he could hide his emotions as much as he wanted, if he didn't find some outlet for them eventually he'd lose the ability to hide them at all, and he'd crack. And he couldn't safely do that here.

_You are my slave, and you will serve me_.

He'd thought he was doing so well, had saved Caesar's life and even gotten himself a change of clothes. But really, Caesar could do as he liked to Arcade, without even the thin protection of being the sole provider of medical care now that Caesar was no longer threatened by the tumor. Arcade's one hope was to cooperate.

His breathing grew ragged. No. He wasn't going to cry. It would be too easily seen, without the use of cosmetics to hide it, and he didn't have any to put on.

Arcade could hardly blame the Courier for perhaps disliking him—so many did, and to each their own. But to sell him to the Legion—when he could have just been killed, if Mark only wanted to be rid of him—and to take it a step further by betraying the entire population of New Vegas—all free people—to spread Hell across New Vegas—yes, the Courier certainly qualified for Dante's ninth circle, Arcade decided, and he set his glasses on the dirt beside him.

"Arcade," he heard, as if from a distant place. He blinked, straining to focus on Titus, who was standing at the entrance to the tent with three female slaves. "You may choose from these women."

_Shit_, he thought, and pushed the glasses back up on his nose. "No offense to Caesar, but I prefer to have sex with women that actually share the desire."

Titus furrowed his brow, once again apparently bewildered by Arcade's words. "Caesar has ordered that you be rewarded."

"Right, how rude of me, refusing to rape them. In that case, I'll have her," he said, pointing at the one to whom he'd given the remains of his meal. He was already forming a plan in his mind—a crazy one, no doubt, but it was the only chance he had.

She didn't react, only stepped forward as Titus nodded. "Good choice. I'll be outside."

Titus zipped up the entrance to the tent as he left. The girl approached Arcade until their faces were nearly touching, and she placed her hands on his shoulders, running them down his arms. His muscles tensed. "You were very kind to me earlier," she said. "I don't mind this, really." He shook his head, about to speak, but she continued, "I'm used to the soldiers, and they're not half so worried about me."

As she spoke, her lips brushed against Arcade's. "That's not the problem," he whispered, turning his head away when she tried to kiss his mouth. "Let's just say that women have never been my thing."

Her mouth formed the shape of an "O" and she nodded. "If they find out…." She looked away.

"That's why we're going to ensure that doesn't happen." He pulled the tunic over his head, tossing it on the other side of the tent. As the slave narrowed her eyes in confusion, he unzipped his pants and threw them on top of the shirt. Then, he pulled down the blankets and slid underneath, beckoning for the slave to join him in the bedroll. She followed, hesitantly removing her clothes, little more than rags that protected her modesty. Resting the back of his head on his arms, he looked up at the ceiling and starting to moan.

Understanding dawned on her face and she smiled. "_Yes_," she said, loudly, "just like that…"

To his ears, she was the more convincing one. A couple of times, Arcade wondered if she was doing anything to help herself sound more believable, but he didn't bother to look. Instead, he concentrated on not allowing himself to laugh, or choking it back so that anyone listening outside the tent would hear it as a groan. It became a game as they matched one another's growing volume, her whimpering with nonexistent pleasure and trying just as hard to stifle her amusement. When they decided that it had gone on long enough and finished, she finally dissolved into laughter, shoulders shaking with laughter as she giggled into the blankets. There, she lingered for a few minutes, lowering her voice to remark, "I wonder what Titus thought of _that_."

She dressed herself and left the tent, and Titus reentered at once. His raised one eyebrow at Arcade, who only allowed himself to smile.

Arcade expected that Caesar would summon him soon—the next day, perhaps. But the week crawled away without even Lucius stopping by to update Arcade on Caesar's condition, and Arcade could only assume that Caesar must be recovering without any trouble. Probably for the best, not that Arcade particularly wanted Caesar to be healthy. Arcade spent his time reciting passages from _The Illiad_ in his head, sometimes even aloud to Titus. By the way the soldier cocked his head and scratched his hair, he didn't have the slightest idea what Arcade was saying, but at least he never told Arcade to stop.

One day, Lucius appeared, and Arcade nearly leapt to his feet. Whatever Caesar wanted had to be more interesting than reenacting Hector's death scene. Thankfully, there was no sign of Mark. Once with Caesar, Arcade saw that a chair had been placed just a few feet away from the throne, and Caesar gestured for Arcade to take a seat. A book was sitting on the chair, and Arcade lifted it to see that it was a copy of _la_ _Divina Commedia_: The Divine Comedy. The irony, Arcade thought to himself, knew no bounds.

"You know Italian?" said Caesar.

Arcade shrugged. "For the most part. I'm more familiar with Latin, but the basics are similar enough."

"Good. Read it."

"Why?" The word tumbled out from instinct, and Arcade's fingers tightened on the edges of the book as he saw Caesar's expression.

Caesar growled, low in his throat, and snapped his fingers in the direction of a guard that Arcade didn't recognize. "Show this slave that he's to treat his master with some fucking respect."

"Gladly," replied the soldier, and drew a whip from his side as he walked towards Arcade.

Arcade's heart almost stopped as the soldier pulled him out of the chair. His eyes squeezed shut by some will of their own as the soldier's hand rose in the air. "It's really not necessary—"

The blow knocked the wind from him. For a split second he was suspended, as if trapped between moments of time, anticipating the pain. The welt flared awake across his back then, a single burning line. And then it radiated from there across his entire back, like the acid solution had been on his throat, like he'd been set on fire. He gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw throbbed. The soldier glanced at Caesar, who nodded, and the whip thrashed again. It screamed in his ears, and Arcade grunted through his teeth as the whip struck his back one final time. The force of the lash shoved him to his knees, at Caesar's feet.

Leaning forward in his throne, Caesar patted Arcade's head. He registered that as an additional dull humiliation, not that it mattered when he'd been broken so far already. "You'll be good now, won't you? There's more where that came from, if you haven't had enough."

"No!—no. Won't happen again." As soon as strength returned to his limbs, Arcade stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. Blood trickled down his back, under the tunic, and he hissed through his teeth as his back connected with the back of the chair. Turning to the first page of the book, he said, "_Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura..."_

At the end of almost every Canto, Caesar held up a hand to stop and question Arcade about the translation of a word, or the events of the story. "What do you think about the Epicureans?" he would ask. "They thought the body had no soul, and happiness could only be achieved through the absence of pain. My men and I would have to say otherwise."

"Well, that's not quite all he believed," ventured Arcade, and Caesar gestured for him to continue. "He also professed that seeking pleasure and freedom from fear were necessary for peace with oneself, not necessarily happiness."

"Still, I've often found that the thrill of fear as one rushes into a battle is a kind of happiness. I don't know about tranquility, but who says one needs peace to be happy? Like I said, the adrenaline of battle is the highest form of pleasure for many of my men." _I don't doubt it_. Before, Arcade would have easily said it, but now he had to watch his mouth. "But then, a doctor like yourself wouldn't know about that."

Unable to pass up the insult, Arcade said, "Have you forgotten that I fought alongside the Courier for half a year?"

"Have you forgotten that he sold you? Keep reading."

Somewhere around the twentieth Canto, Arcade could hardly speak any longer, his voice a raspy mutter that definitely clashed with the smooth Italian poetry. At any moment now, he told himself, Caesar would dismiss him. After all, he'd been given plenty of rest up until this point. But then, that was before Caesar had revealed Arcade's condition as a slave to him. Although Arcade had long wished that he could find someone with which to discuss the finer points of classic literature, his throat was parched, in need of some liquid to relieve it. Still, Caesar waited until Arcade could only utter strangled whispers before he finally told Arcade to leave.

"Rest up," he said. "The real work begins in a couple of days."

_That explains Lucius_, Arcade thought. The man's eyes were darting around the tent, unable to remain still, and he barely noticed Arcade. When he escorted Arcade back to his tent, he marched briskly, so that Arcade had to jog to match his pace. And once there, Titus stared with wide eyes as Arcade wondered how much the giant even understood about the situation. "So, according to Caesar—" He coughed to clear his throat, although his voice still made him sound like the survivor of a deathclaw attack. "Big day coming up?"

"Yes." Titus drummed his fingers against his leg. "Very important, Caesar says. Hoover Dam."

Muttering a curse under his breath, Arcade placed his glasses beside him and rubbed his eyes. "Sounds exhilarating." When Titus tilted his head to one side, Arcade remembered that there wasn't much point in speaking anything other than monosyllables around Titus. "Uh, it sounds fun."

"Yes. I have to stay here. To guard you," he added, as if Arcade wouldn't have figured it out otherwise. "Caesar says that you are…not able to be replaced."

"Irreplaceable, you mean?" He sighed. "That I am."

"Hmm?" There was no way Titus could have heard him.

With a dismissive wave, Arcade pointed at his throat. "Water?" he rasped, and Titus nodded, calling for a servant.

It was the oldest woman he had seen so far at the camp, and she smirked when she saw Arcade. "We've heard about you," she said in a low voice, and Arcade ignored her. Slave gossip traveled far too quickly for his liking, and he didn't want to think about the implications of what that might mean. He gulped down the water and tried to sleep.

There wasn't much for him to do over the next few days, although Caesar did summon him to discuss battle strategies. But no matter how much he tried to drag out of Arcade, the doctor skirted around every question. "It's impossible to predict how many of the Brotherhood will surface," he insisted, when Lucius pressured him to estimate the number that would appear on the battlefield. "No one has been able to locate them for years."

"Then what about the NCR heavy troopers, Lee's bodyguards? What can we expect from them?"

"Look, I'm no expert in battle. I can shoot a gun, but analyzing General Oliver's personal troops is a bit out of my league."

"But the Courier—"

Raising one hand to silence Lucius, Caesar turned to face Arcade, his eyes flashing dangerously. "How are the injuries on your back? Healing swiftly, I hope?"

_Point taken, you bastard_. Just when Arcade was beginning to forget about it, too, and now it throbbed again. There had been plenty of stimpacks available when Arcade operated on Caesar, but now that the slave was the one in need of healing, no one had been able to find any. "Their power armor is essentially impenetrable from a distance, but it reduces agility. Against melee weapons, it barely puts up a fight."

"Much better," said Caesar, clapping Arcade on the shoulder, and he winced. His shoulder burned where Caesar had touched him, as though his hand was made of acid. The discussion of strategy continued for hours, and Caesar argued with him sometimes, demanding to know Arcade's reasons for believing that Lee's bodyguards weren't as threatening as the legionnaires assumed, or countless details that he could barely recall when he had returned to his tent.

By sunrise, the soldiers had departed for Hoover Dam.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

Arcade had anticipated that Caesar would travel with the soldiers to Hoover Dam and, in some optimistic part of himself, hoped that Caesar would die in the battle. But he had assumed incorrectly, and Caesar went nowhere.

While he awaited news of the battle, he often requested that Arcade come and read to him. Slaves made certain that they never lacked for food, although they talked through many meals, and Caesar argued with Arcade over any theme or character or moral that could possibly be argued. When Dante's journey ended, Caesar presented Arcade with a pre-war copy of _Paradise Lost_, and they debated over that instead. _Did Milton really intend to portray Satan as the antagonist? Yes. No. Why? Because this, and that, and look at these lines._ Arcade hadn't stretched his mind half so much in medical research as he did now, determined to win every argument with Caesar, and Caesar all too eager to goad him on until he could barely think straight. That didn't happen often, but Arcade had to admit that Caesar was a fairly formidable opponent.

At the end of the day, he was sent back under the watchful eye of to Titus. Several other guards were stuck at the camp as well, the unlucky ones who'd missed out on the action, but Arcade was grateful that Titus remained his guard more often than not. It was almost comforting to return to someone who didn't even understand half of what Arcade said, much less attempt to argue with him. "Tell me something," Arcade said, and Titus nodded. "How can it be that Caesar sits on his throne, unguarded now that the majority of his soldiers are raining hell on Hoover Dam, and it never once occurred to you that you could snap that man's neck like a twig?"

Most of the soldiers would have probably whipped Arcade until he could no longer stand for suggesting such a thing. Titus inclined his head and shrugged.

"It's insanity," Arcade went on. "And here I am, reading Milton to a madman, an intellectual slave. The irony is almost palpable. There's got to be some literary parallel here, but I can't even recall any at the moment. My intellect is exhausted, and that doesn't happen often."

"Caesar is not a madman," said Titus, suddenly raising his voice. "You will not disrespect him." Heaving a sigh, Arcade rolled over so that he no longer faced the guard. It couldn't end well if he provoked the giant, whose simple mind had been twisted into blind devotion to Caesar.

Once, Titus woke him up in the middle of the night. Arcade snatched up his glasses and sat up, expecting to be brought to Caesar, perhaps for a bedtime story. But instead, Titus told him, "You were yelling in your sleep. If the soldiers outside heard, they might have been angry. Who is Mark?"

"Mark? Just the bastard who tricked me into this hell."

"You were calling out his name."

"Hmm, no, I don't think so. You clearly misheard."

The days and nights stretched on, until the battalion finally returned from Hoover Dam. From that moment on, the Fort become an emergency care center.

As the sole doctor in the entire camp, Arcade was responsible for every life, every death. Caesar had not lied—the real work had begun, and it never relented. At all times, Lucius observed to ensure that Arcade did not kill the men or deliberately neglect them, and he called for Arcade to move faster, faster, until one of his shouts startled Arcade into nearly dropping the scalpel. He'd almost yelled at Lucius to shut the hell up and let him work, but Lucius was even more desperate than Arcade to save these men's lives, and powerful, desperate men were never good to provoke.

Regardless of Lucius looking over his shoulder, Arcade knew that he wouldn't have been able to murder them outright, even with their lives in his hands. He'd sworn an oath older than the bombs, and most of these men couldn't have explained why they were fighting for Caesar any more than Titus could have explained why he didn't believe Caesar to be a madman. Besides, if Caesar suspected that Arcade had a hand in any of their deaths, it wouldn't matter how many of them Arcade killed.

The tents, normally reserved for sleeping, had become hospital rooms. Slaves scrambled around the clock with food and water and the occasional stimpack, but for the most part, Arcade had to do things the old-fashioned way. At some point during his work, the sun set, and then it rose again. The intensity pushed him on, dragged him to his feet and to another tent, glued the scalpel to his hands. When blood splattered on his glasses, he wiped them on his coat, and when blood dripped off his gloves, he reached for another pair.

Only when he could no longer force his eyelids open and when his head dropped down to his chest did Lucius finally haul him back to his tent. The groans of dying men haunted his steps, and his sleep, and he ran back to them as soon as he was physically capable.

When he entered one tent, he froze, stimpack in hand. The Courier struggled to sit up, but he collapsed back in the blankets. "Oh, please," Arcade muttered, "spare me the theatrics."

"What are you waiting for?" barked Lucius.

With a groan, Mark curled himself into a loose ball. Still, Arcade didn't take a step closer to the bedroll. Lucius grabbed Arcade by the shoulders and shook him, and to his tired eyes, the entire room spun before him for a fleeting moment. Obediently, he kneeled at Mark's side, reminding himself, _You swore an oath. _"This is what happens," he murmured, too low for Lucius to hear, "without a good-looking doctor to take care of you in the big, bad wasteland." Every word dripped with sarcasm, although Arcade could have sworn that the corner of Mark's mouth twitched in a smile.

"You won't have to see me again after this," Mark said, and grunted as Arcade applied the stimpack to his broken leg.

The promise infuriated Arcade even more—when all was said and done, he didn't care whether he saw the traitor's face again or not; he just wanted to be free of Caesar. As he worked, Arcade didn't bother to work gently for Mark's sake, and besides, the faster he moved, the sooner he could get away from Mark. _If I maneuver it just slightly, he'll never walk again…the Legion will never know_. His fingers itched to settle the score, enact revenge. _If I crippled him, or even murdered him, that wouldn't restore my freedom._

He knew his eyes were glistening wet, so he blinked before Lucius could see. The second he was finished with Mark, he nearly shoved him away to reach the next soldier. Compared to Mark, fixing the legionnaires was so much easier.

One day, there were no more wounded to attend to, at least not immediately. Arcade slumped down, his energy spent, and Lucius muttered something about always having to carry him back to his quarters. Too drained to reply, Arcade wished he could sleep and never awaken.

Despite heavy casualties, the Legion had won at Hoover Dam, and they owned New Vegas. Rome wasn't built in a day, Arcade reflected, but it burned in a day. As he had predicted, the Legion carried out their plans to transform it into the slave capital of the Wasteland, and while the process did take some time, New Vegas was as much of a hellhole as the Fort in a matter of months. The phrase _veni, vidi, vici _rang throughout the camp almost as often as _ave, true to Caesar._

Sometimes, Arcade vented about the situation to Titus, railing on about the evils of slavery until the guard probably couldn't even think straight. Then again, that didn't take much. When other soldiers were nearby, or when Titus did correct Arcade, he shut up and didn't speak again until Caesar commanded it.

"Something wrong, Arcade?"

With no other known threats to the Legion or its troops, Arcade had been relegated to the role of Caesar's private physician, regularly checking his health or serving as Caesar's opponent in various intellectual games. For most of the day, he stood by Caesar's throne and conversed with him, except when Caesar spoke with another soldier, and then Arcade could only observe silently. When Arcade heard that Mark had ordered Benny's crucifixion, his hands balled into fists at his side, and this did not escape Caesar's notice. Few things did, Arcade thought ruefully, and resigned himself to the fact that this particularly situation simply wasn't worth the risk of lying to Caesar.

"Disregarding the fact that the man sold me into slavery, he's well aware that I'm not exactly a fan of crucifixion. Without my aid, he wouldn't even be alive to order anybody's death. It's a slight irritation, you understand."

"I'd say karma's a bitch if you weren't such a saint," laughed Caesar, and Arcade fixed his eyes on the opposite side of the tent. In some warped way, that might have been intended as a compliment. "Not a fan of crucifixion, you say? What the fuck's not to like about it?"

The bait was out, and Arcade knew that he was expected to bite. Folding his arms at his chest, he said, "Let's see, where to begin? I suppose it's not excessively distasteful if you ignore the fact that people are publicly tortured to death over the course of several days. And in addition to extreme physical discomfort, the victim also suffers terrible humiliation. Most are hung without a scrap of clothing, and if they have to urinate at any point during the process, they are forced to do so in full view of the public. Oh, and causes of death on the cross range from blood loss, sepsis following an infection, the process of nailing or from hunger, dehydration, and shock. That basically summarizes all of the most painful ways to die."

As Arcade spoke, Caesar flipped through the pages of Homer's _Odyssey_, one of the books that he occasionally asked Arcade to read from. "Like I said, a fucking saint. All of these reasons are well and good from a moral aspect, but think of it from a more pragmatic perspective. Consider how it raises moral in my troops, and scares the slaves into obedience."

When Arcade opened his mouth to reply, he noticed one of the guards staring at him. Arcade didn't recognize the man, obviously a recent promotion. _No doubt he performed some valiant act, like killing an exceptional number of NCR troops at Hoover Dam_. But much more frightening to contemplate was the soldier's gaze, which Arcade _did_ recognize, having given and received it on prior occasions. Although it made perfect sense for a guard to be watching him, none of the others' eyes flickered down like that to trail up his body, lingering. The legionnaire wasn't exactly hard on the eyes, and Arcade might have returned the look under other circumstances, but it terrified him here.

"Uh, w-well," he stammered, "i-it can also inhibit an otherwise good soldier. Hypothetically, what if one knew that he ought to carry out a certain strategy, but hesitated to do so for fear of the punishment for failure? Many are willing to risk death in battle, but they'll end up narrow-minded and restricted by the threat of crucifixion."

He almost winced at his logic, which, he admitted, was a little flawed...okay, it had fallen to pieces by the end. Judging by the inevitable smirk, Caesar knew it too. If nothing else, at least, it amused him instead of provoking. "Clearly you've forgotten about Vulpes Inculta, one of my finest specimens. Feeling a little under the weather, Arcade?"

"Yeah, that must be it."

"Really? How fascinating, especially since the weather never changes here."

"Lucius kept me waiting awhile before he let me enter. I tried to explain that I sunburn easily, but he wouldn't listen."

"Ah, I've been wondering why your face is so red."

Was Caesar playing with him? Arcade told himself that he _had_ stood outside for far too long, and his skin sunburned like a…something that sunburned easily. Regardless of whether a Legion soldier was eye-fucking him or not. "Mystery solved." He couldn't even think straight, much less snap back with some memorable retort. _In Westside, Mark met a man who claimed to have served as a sex slave for a soldier here. After all, confirmed bachelors aren't exactly welcome in the Legion. Those who have successfully managed to hide it for this long certainly wouldn't mind getting their hands on a slave_. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

They resumed their debate about crucifixion, and sometime later, Caesar dismissed Arcade back to his tent. There, he ate dinner, or what was supposed to be dinner—the quality of the food varied from day to day. As he bit off a slab of bread, Arcade couldn't shake the feeling that the soldier from earlier did not have the slightest intention of leaving Arcade alone.

Unfortunately, he was proven correct. Every other night, Titus traded guard duty with Valerius, who Arcade had found to be far less interesting and less entertaining, but a different guard entered the tent this time. Even Titus was surprised, saying, "Julius?" when the other man entered.

Arcade's blood ran cold as the soldier who'd been staring at him earlier explained that Valerius had been needed for other duties. "I'll take over from here," said Julius, advancing on Arcade. The giant lumbered out, and Arcade wished in a moment of childishness that he could call out to Titus and make him come back. "You're the one Silva mentioned," Julius said to Arcade, as soon as Titus had closed the tent behind him.

"Silva?" The name didn't spark any memory, and Arcade faltered for a response. "I'm not sure—"

"One of the slaves," Julius replied, standing a bit too close for comfort. Those dark eyes hadn't moved an inch from Arcade's. "You know how they gossip."

"Right. So, you must have some exciting stories from Hoover Dam. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell me about it?"

A slow smile spread across Julius' tanned face, and Arcade's heart sank. "Believe me, it's tempting," he said. "But I'm not much of a storyteller."

With a nervous laugh, Arcade said, "Well, neither is Titus. Never stops him from trying, though."

To his own ears, he sounded desperate, like someone pleading for mercy. Like a slave. The muscles in every part of him, even his face, tightened as Julius drew so close that their noses nearly touched. The soldier's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're not stupid like the last one. In fact, you're brilliant. Enough to know that you'll be on the cross with me if you breathe a word to Caesar about this."

Yes, Arcade knew full well Caesar's opinion of "faggots," and the other names he used. "Your secret is safe with—" His breath hitched as Julius pressed their mouths together.

It had been a long time since Arcade had slept with anyone, long enough that he responded to the physical pleasure without any difficulty. Never before, though, had he so fought the urge to gag during sex. There was a little shame, too, but mostly disgust and anger burned his cheeks and crept up in his dreams.

Throughout the night, he tossed and turned. It could have been worse—Julius wasn't rough, and his calloused hands slid with gentleness that Arcade did not anticipate—but at the same time, it couldn't have been any worse. _You're not stupid like the last one_, Julius said, implying that he'd done this before, and Arcade was yet another source of amusement.

When he had the chance, Arcade asked Caesar about the change of guards, with as much nonchalance as possible. "So, I take it that Valerius has been feeling a little under the weather?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Caesar frowned. "Ill, without warning. I was gonna ask you to take a look at him. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

Startled by the news, Arcade wondered if Julius might have taken it upon himself to remove Valerius from the picture. "From a medical standpoint, I'd need to examine him before I could determine anything for certain—"

With one clenched fist, Caesar slammed down on the side of his throne. "Dammit, Arcade, that's not what I meant and you know it. You didn't pull any fucking tricks, did you?"

"No, of course not," Arcade insisted with wide eyes. "You have nothing to fear from me. Doctors abide by a strict moral code, one that forbids us to use our medical knowledge to harm others."

"There you go, railing on about morality again. Titus, will you escort this slave to Valerius?" He hung onto the _s_, emphasizing the word _slave_. Nodding before Caesar even finished the sentence, Titus stepped forward and gestured for Arcade to follow him.

Eventually, Titus stopped and opened the flap, allowing Arcade to go in. There on a cot, Valerius lay without so much as twitching when Arcade drew near, his face pale and lips tinted a faint shade of blue.

Arcade pressed two fingers against the man's neck and chest, and groaned with frustration when he detected not even the weakest pulse. "What's wrong with him?" asked Titus.

Shaking his head, Arcade pulled the blankets up so that they covered Valerius. "He's dead." Caesar wasn't going to like that one bit at all. As a matter of fact, Arcade didn't especially like it either, and he hadn't expected to miss Valerius half so much until Julius replaced him. Had Julius, in fact, dared to poison a fellow soldier? Legion or not, Arcade would never have anticipated such a murder, and he found it hard to wrap his mind around the idea that Julius might have killed Valerius just to get his hands on a slave. But then, Legion troops were unpredictable, they were evil, and usually impossible to reason with. Evil men with a strong desire for something were, in Arcade's experience, rarely unstoppable and never reasonable.

As he trailed behind Titus back to Caesar's tent, he could almost imagine that he felt the slightest pressure in the back pocket of his pants. That wasn't altogether strange—he'd stored one of the apples from breakfast for later, in case he was still reading to Caesar and Caesar forgot to feed him—but he noticed that the pressure had increased. Barely glancing behind himself at first, he whirled around and grabbed the wrist of a young girl just as she jerked it away, or tried to. "What's this?" demanded Titus, turning around.

Once Arcade seized the girl and Titus spoke, she froze in place, not replying until Arcade shook her wrist. He regretted it at once as her nostrils flared with a sharp, frightened intake of breath, and her voice quivered uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, I haven't eaten in so long—I couldn't help it. The others said I'd get used to it, but—please, don't tell Caesar, I'm begging you. They said he'd cut off my hand if I was caught…."

It occurred to Arcade that he didn't recognize this girl, and by this time, he was familiar with all the slaves in the camp. This one was the youngest that he had seen, too. "Here," he said, tossing her the apple. "He'll never know."

Her fingers gripped it like a golden coin as her eyes widened in astonishment. "Thank you," she cried, and bit in quickly, as if afraid that he would take it back.

"What's your name?"

"Cara," she said, the word muffled as she chewed.

"See you around, Cara."

She smiled briefly, and Titus took Arcade by the arm. "You don't want to keep Caesar waiting," he said, and Arcade didn't argue.

"_Dead_?" Caesar repeated, when Arcade reported the news. "Dammit, Arcade! If I find out that you had anything to do with this, I'll nail you up myself."

_Are you sure, Caesar? That might require you to get up from your throne. _"As I said, doctors adhere to a moral code, and I had no quarrel with Valerius. He was a good man, if misguided, and I have nothing to gain from his death." He was already plotting to get rid of Julius, somehow. No matter what it took, Arcade refused to repeat the previous night's events. His mind raced with possibilities.

"Whatever you say," grumbled Caesar, rubbing his temples. "Don't even let me suspect it. I like you too damn much to want you on a cross, but pray that this doesn't happen again." He lifted his head suddenly. "While you were gone, I received a report that some remnant NCR troops were found near the Cove. Naturally, they were captured, and brought back here. I want you to speak with them later, find out if there's any of them left in the area. Don't want any sneaking up on his after all the trouble we went through at Hoover Dam."

"I'll do my best, but I don't expect them to be overly forthcoming to Caesar's physician."

"Get creative. Titus, take him away. If he says one more word, I might just have to shoot him." For a brief moment, Arcade smiled. As much as Caesar liked to feign irritation, everyone knew that he favored Arcade. Every so often, Arcade would hear the low-ranking soldiers complain that they weren't allowed to enter Caesar's presence while one of the slaves was summoned on an almost daily basis. The original plan had been to annoy Caesar into killing him, but apparently he'd only achieved the opposite result.

As Arcade trailed behind Titus, they passed Julius, who smirked at Arcade. He nearly stopped in his tracks, but forced himself to meet the soldier's eyes and keep walking.

The NCR troops had been separated from the camp, kept in a couple of tents on the outskirts of the Fort. When Arcade ducked inside one, his skin crawled as he observed the men confined in stocks, which he hadn't even known were used by the Legion. He'd read about them—Roman origin, of course. Metal combs with space between the teeth for legs, and a rod that went through the teeth and fastened the stocks to the ground. Inescapable as far as Arcade knew, they provided not only security, but also torture. Entertainment to the guards, too, most likely. The NCR men, clad in Ranger armor, could only sit up or lie flat on their backs while restrained in the stocks. They glared at Arcade, probably assuming that he was a member of the Legion rather than a slave.

He was, though, the only person in the Fort authorized to carry stimpacks and doctor's bags. Most stocks were capable of breaking limbs, and Arcade started off by healing one man's fractured leg. The man groaned with relief, even thanking Arcade under his breath. "Titus," said Arcade, "I'll need you outside for a few minutes." As Titus started to shake his head, Arcade continued, "Caesar told me to get creative, remember? And I can't run far with you standing right outside."

When Titus stepped out, one of the soldiers said, "The Legion forbids chems. What's going on here?"

"I've never done this before, but I'm pretty sure this is the part where I say that I'm the one asking the questions here." He regretted the sarcasm at once; these men were in pain, their Republic had been crushed at Hoover Dem, and this wasn't the time to make light of their situation. _All that quality time with Caesar's turned me into a real dick._ As he reached forward to feel the soldier's forehead, the man jerked back as far as he was able. "Easy, I have to know if you have a fever. What's your name?"

"Jacob—" He sucked in a breath as Arcade unlocked the stocks. "Jacob Smith. Where'd you get that key?"

Jerking his thumb towards the entrance to the tent, Arcade muttered, "My covert bandaging skills are a little rusty, but I doubt Titus would notice if I'd taken it out from under his nose." As Arcade unlocked the other stocks, the troops drew their legs in, carefully. He attended to the four of them in turn, asking their names and other questions that he didn't really care about the answers to, but it hopefully distracted them from the pain. "So Jacob, how long have you served with the NCR?"

"All my life. My father died serving in the 1st Recon, and I planned to follow in his footsteps. Now I guess I'll end up on one of those crosses." Arcade thought, _From the looks of it, that's the least of your worries. _Jacob's leg was red and swollen, and his hands were balled into tight fists in an effort to conceal all signs of pain. The other men bore cuts left from the stocks, but Jacob had contracted an infection, one that wasn't going away without a surgery that Arcade couldn't perform here. In a voice so low that it was almost a growl, Jacob said, "How long have you been with the Legion?"

"What? Oh, right. It's not what it looks like," he said dryly. "I'm not exactly _with_ them. More like indentured servitude, really." He decidedly disliked the word _slavery _in regards to his situation."My traveling companion was having a bad day, and sold me to Caesar."

"…Right." By Jacob's tone, he wasn't sure what to make of that, and Arcade didn't blame him. It was a relief, though, to finally converse with someone who didn't serve a sociopath.

"So, you're the remnant, huh? The four of you?"

"There's a few of us here and there," said Jacob, as Arcade produced an iguana on a stick from the pocket of his white coat. Gratefully, Jacob broke it into four equal portions and passed it to his men. While Arcade didn't know for sure if Jacob was in charge, he spoke for all of them, and certainly held his head like some kind of leader. The iguana was all Arcade had on him, but he vowed to bring more for the prisoners later. "We were separated," Jacob continued. "The others could be halfway across the Mojave by now."

While Jacob spoke, Arcade rifled through the contents of the doctor's bag. He paused, unable to look away, when his hand brushed against cold metal.

It chilled his skin as he lifted it out of the bag, Jacob forgotten, his words not quite reaching Arcade's ears. With Titus outside, this was an opportunity, one that Arcade had contemplated for months without ever really imagining that he might attain it. That scalpel, in this moment, was his one realistic chance of leaving Caesar's service. But now, the knife so close that he could taste the metal, his racing mind struggled to comprehend the magnitude of what he was about to do. The Enclave and Followers both condemned suicide, especially when there was work to be done, but their teachings weren't the only reasons for his hesitation.

Holding the scalpel was second nature to him, and the notion of using it to free himself from a cruel master was temptingly poetic; but when the scalpel was actually in his hands and there was no guard to stop him, he couldn't seem to hold it straight. And that didn't happen often when he had a scalpel in hand; in fact, it never did. Something in his very core protested.

"You alright?"

At once, his head snapped up. "Never better." He set the scalpel back in the bag, burying it under the stimpacks. These men needed a doctor, Jacob especially, and this was Arcade's first chance to accomplish anything worthwhile at the Fort. Some other time, he promised himself, secretly relieved. "Unfortunately, the legionnaire standing right outside this tent might be somewhat alarmed if he discovers you out of those stocks." The men's eyes widened, and Arcade feared for a moment that he might not be able to cajole them back into the stocks. If they resisted, he certainly couldn't fight all four. "I'll return as soon as possible. I'm no Virgil, but if any method of escape exists in this godforsaken place, you can rest assured that I'll find it."

The men clenched their jaws as Arcade locked their legs in place, but they didn't cry out, for which Arcade was grateful. It might alarm Titus, or at least rouse his curiosity.

As Titus brought him from the tent, Arcade slipped the key back into Titus' pocket.

"Why should I let you waste our chems on NCR scum?" demanded Caesar, and Arcade couldn't help but smile at the irony of Caesar's insult. "Stimpacks don't grow on trees, you know. We could just torture the information out of him. Julius, I'm told, has a marvelous gift for getting things out of people when they're uncooperative.

_You have no idea_. "Those men are clinging to life out there, and those stocks aren't helping. They won't survive torture, and they may not even be alive tomorrow if I don't operate."

"You'd better be right about this, Arcade. I want information. You'll operate tomorrow, and you'd better come out telling me the names of every NCR troop on this side of the Colorado." Arcade could only hope that Caesar was exaggerating.

By the time he was back in his own tent, it was nightfall. He told Julius that if he didn't rest for eight hours, he wouldn't be able to perform the surgery correctly. Thanks to the blessed ignorance of the Legion's men concerning medical matters, Julius believed him, or at least didn't want to risk the chance that Arcade might be telling the truth. He slept easy for the first time in weeks, satisfied that he'd at least postponed the soldier, if not for long.

After the operation, Arcade visited Jacob and the other troops every couple of days, with the excuse that he was still overseeing the recovery. Titus had grown accustomed to allowing these visits to go unguarded, although a nagging fear in the back of Arcade's mind warned him that any other soldier would soon put a stop to that if they ever discovered it. "You said you'd help us get out of here," said Jacob. "Have you found any way to escape yet?" His voice reminded Arcade eerily of Boone, especially the way that Jacob muttered the question, and his single-minded determination even while he could barely stand.

"The Legion runs a tight shift, I'm afraid." Arcade set a hand over each of the soldiers' foreheads in turn, checking that the others had not developed a fever in the time that he had attended to Jacob in the operating room. "_Patientia est virtus_."

"There are men waiting for us when we escape," Jacob continued, rubbing his wrists where metal chains had left marks.

Hand frozen in the air, Arcade asked, "Where?" Then, snapping back to reality, he doled out fresh stimpacks, typing a super stimpack around Jacob's recovering leg. There wasn't anything he could really do with that information anyway, since he had no intention of telling Caesar, so why even bother asking?

"Never mind that. But they won't be waiting forever. The first chance I get, I'm out of this shithole."

Many prisoners weren't ashamed to talk big, but Jacob spoke with a resolution that Arcade didn't doubt for a moment. "Take it easy for now. If you don't give yourself time to heal—"

"I don't have time."

If Arcade had closed his eyes, he could have imagined Boone saying those words, just like that, and it frightened him. Jacob and his troops were the first non-Legion that Arcade had been able to converse with in months, and the last thing he wanted was for them to do something stupid, reckless, impulsive… "Well, I can hardly stop you—"

"Damn right, you can't."

"—but that leg's not going to carry you more than a couple of miles."

Although Jacob nodded in reply, his eyes were too wide, and Arcade grimaced as he left the tent. The man was sweating desperation, like an animal that had been penned up for too long.

Julius was standing right outside, demanding to know why Titus had allowed Arcade inside the tent without supervision. "Just in time," Julius said, upon seeing Arcade. "Do you have Caesar's information?"

"Their leader is recovering from a dangerous operation," Arcade started to explain, but Julius pushed past him.

"Your time's up. Caesar's patience wanes thin, and I must carry out my orders."

"Come on, Julius, at least allow me to speak with Caesar before—" As Arcade called after Julius, Titus was already pulling him away, back to his own quarters. "Titus, let me talk to Caesar. If we get to him in time—he doesn't know the risks of torturing a patient in Jacob's condition—"

The giant shook his head, and it reminded Arcade of Minos, the monster who declared each person's destination when they reached the first circle of Hell. While Titus only meant to follow orders and did not understand his actions beyond that, he had decided Jacob's fate with that one move, and Arcade could only clench his fists and wait.

* * *

**Matt**: Thank you so much for your kind review! I'm very glad to hear that you like my writing of Arcade. To clear up the confusion, it seems like the game never fully explains the Legion's view on homosexuality - some NPCs do imply that the Legion is more accepting of it, but there's a former slave named Jimmy who says that Caesar punishes it by death. I took that to mean that while there are definitely some gay soldiers in the Legion, they would have no choice but to keep it a secret.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**.

Naturally, Caesar did not summon him that day, and Titus did not stray from Arcade's side even when shouts and battle cries rose throughout the camp. Arcade liked to hope that Jacob hadn't done something stupid like attempt to escape, but torture at Julius' hands was just the thing that would have pushed him over the edge. "Do I hear battle outside?" he asked, though he knew full well what he heard. When Titus nodded, he pressed on, "Maybe I can reason with the prisoners. They'll listen to me. I can convince them to stop."

"That would be pointless," said Titus, unusually straightforward. "The prisoners have no chance of winning. They will die. Why should you interfere?"

"So they _don't_ die, dammit! What's the obsession with seeing everyone dead, anyway?"

"Arcade." The warning was clear, so he shut up before he could say something that he'd permanently regret, but he couldn't shut out the noises of the combat outside his tent. They died down eventually, and as before, he could only hear the desolate wind raging through the camp.

Late in the day, the slave he recognized as Cara arrived at the tent with their dinner. Before anyone else had the chance to speak, Arcade demanded, "What happened earlier?"

"Prisoner escape," muttered Cara, eyes fixed on the ground, even though she and Arcade were both sitting. "They tried, anyway."

"I suppose it's too much to hope that they succeeded?"

"They didn't get far. Killed a single soldier before they all ended up dead. That's what happens when you try to escape the Legion," she added, so that Titus would not order them to stop the conversation.

"Killed a soldier, you say? I'm heartbroken." As expected, Titus didn't pick up on the sarcasm. "Know his name, by any chance?"

"Decanus Julius. One of the bravest soldiers. The centurions mourn his loss."

"As do I." Arcade couldn't hold back the grin on his face, and it was all he could do not to get on his knees and thank every higher power in every religion he knew of. "In fact, I'm so distressed, I can barely eat. Finish this for me, will you?"

In all the times he'd offered food to slaves, they always reacted the same way, faces lighting up in silent gratitude. Cara was no exception, and accepted even as Titus began to protest. "You should not waste food on the female slaves. Give it to the dogs; at least they fight."

At the news of Julius' death, Arcade was cheerful enough to explain with more patience than usual. "Since it's unlikely you'll respond if I argue this on a moral level, think of it as more practical for the animals. Human sustenance can upset a dog's stomach, especially nutrients as rich as this…iguana." Having no experience with treating animals, Arcade had no idea if this was true. But, more importantly, neither did Titus. "Besides, a well-fed slave can perform more efficiently, and with higher morale."

As Arcade expected, Titus inclined his head to one side as he considered Arcade's words. "I see why Caesar likes to argue with you."

Despite the relief at Julius' death, Arcade already missed the NCR troops. Conversing with someone who wasn't insane had been a rare pleasure. It was probably better for them, though, to die by the sword, certainly better than if they'd cooperated with Caesar and then been crucified for their trouble. Caesar had to be fuming, though. "Did you know him?" Arcade said to Cara. "Julius, I mean."

A scowl darkened her features, and she bowed her head so that Titus wouldn't notice. "Yes."

As another legionnaire approached the tent, she bent to sweep up the remainder of the food, and vanished from the tent in a matter of seconds. That, no doubt, was an essential skill among the Legion slaves. "Caesar summons you at once."

"Great. I was beginning to miss—" He cut off as the soldier yanked on his wrist so that he stumbled forward. His cheeks burned with the knowledge that Caesar's men led him around like one of the dogs, and though it wasn't the first time, he'd never quite grown to stomach how much it pleased them to do so. None of the surrounding legionnaires so much as cracked a smile this time, though, and that alarmed Arcade more than anything else. _Whatever Caesar wants, it must be related to the NCR troops._

As expected, Caesar didn't look pleased. At the sight of Arcade, Caesar pursed his lips and stared at him before his gaze flickered up to Lucius. "Get the slave on his knees." Without thinking, Arcade struggled to keep his legs straight as Lucius pushed him down. He regretted it at once, joints aching as his knees slammed into the ground. Jabbing a finger in Arcade's face, Caesar demanded, "Now, why don't you tell me what the hell just happened? You have exactly one minute to convince me that you didn't have anything to do with what those prisoners tried to pull, or I swear you'll fucking beg to hang on those crosses by the time we're done with you."

_Well, when you put it that way…._ "You know I'm not stupid, Caesar—"

"_Kai-zar_," hissed Lucius, and Arcade cursed inwardly.

"It would be foolish, Kai-zar, to even think that they had a chance. They were in no condition to go anywhere, and I told them so. Their leader inquired about his odds, and I replied that he would be killed at once. Moreover, I told you—" Mind racing, Arcade revised his words. "I advised you not to have anyone attempt to torture them for the information for that reason. They were desperate men, and desperate men act without considering the consequences."

Sitting back in his throne, Caesar ground his teeth together as he considered Arcade's defense. "Even so, you failed to retrieve the information. You wasted valuable time and medical supplies—"

"Actually, the men admitted that they knew nothing of their companions' whereabouts. After I saved their leader's life, they trusted me; they wouldn't have lied. When Julius showed up to torture them, they became even more anxious to escape, because they had already surrendered what little information they did have." The Followers generally disapproved of lying, and Arcade shared the sentiment, but deceiving Caesar to save his skin was another issue entirely.

"You expect me to believe that? Well, you had better fucking pray that none of my scouts locate any NCR troops within a hundred mile radius of this place. I don't need to come up with any more threats; you know what will happen if I find out you've lied to me." Leaning forward again, Caesar added, "Go wash up. Legatus Lanius arrives tonight, and there will be a feast in his honor. I want you there."

As Titus led Arcade to the baths, he concentrated on his breathing, and taking steady breaths in and out. That brush with death, or worse, was the last of Caesar's anger that he ever wanted to see. If not for his naturally pale complexion, Caesar would have recognized the lie right away when the blood drained from Arcade's face. Seeing Lanius would be enough punishment, anyway, even if Caesar hadn't intended it so.

The baths, were blessedly far from the rest of the Fort, more to provide space than privacy. Built some time after the victory at Hoover Dam, the baths resembled those of ancient Rome that Arcade remembered from pre-war history books. He hadn't seen them until Titus brought him there that day, but Caesar had consulted Arcade while planning the construction, and Arcade observed that Caesar had followed his instructions quite closely. Columns stretched up to create a ceiling of stone, and the bath contained hundreds of gallons of water, though Arcade doubted that it was entirely pure. Still, it sparkled like an artificial ocean, with slaves posted day and night to bathe any soldiers that approached them. As Arcade ran a hand through the grease and dirt of his hair, he realized just how much he longed to be clean again. Even a change of clothes was a welcome surprise whenever he received one, but for a slave like himself to use the Legion baths had been unthinkable.

Unfortunately, Caesar also preserved the custom of public bathing, a punishment almost equal to dining with Legate Lanius. As Arcade pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it where he had left his shoes, a soldier had already started to snicker.

Mortified, Arcade turned around to remove the rest of his clothes, knowing full well that he couldn't hide for long. Every man at the Fort endured intense training that Arcade had never faced, and though he possessed a naturally athletic build, his appetite had shrunk considerably in his service to Caesar. He never finished everything on his plate, and his body had suffered for it, cheeks sunken and muscles slack from the lack of exercise. It had been months since his days of gallivanting around the Mojave with Mark, and the sun's rays rarely reached his skin with him confined to a tent for hours every day. Legion men boasted tan complexions and muscles honed from years of training and combat, and next to them, Arcade was a pasty sack of skin and bones.

Titus, at least, waited with folded arms at the edge of the bath and stared at nothing in particular. If nothing else, at least he wouldn't witness the humiliation. Arcade slipped into the bath as fast as he could without drawing attention so that the water might conceal him from the soldiers' notice, but they still smirked at him, and one of them pointed at a female slave. "You look more like her."

The others laughed and added jeers of their own, which Arcade tried to ignore. A retort rose to his lips, but he swallowed it. If he provoked a fight now, Caesar just might kill him. The blonde, blue-eyed woman was slender, and there was no denying that Arcade resembled her more closely than he did the huge, dark-haired soldiers. They weren't ugly, either, with chiseled features and obvious strength. Carefully, Arcade averted his gaze, hoping that they would just assume he was a slave who knew better than to meet their eyes. When he didn't respond to their insults, they turned their attention back to the slaves who scrubbed them down. Face still flushed, Arcade removed his glasses while they weren't looking to eliminate the problem entirely.

He lingered in the bath until the soldiers had cleared out, and only he and the slaves remained. Among them was Cara, whose eyes had widened the moment she saw him, and she approached him as soon as the area was clear. Only Titus stayed, and he was at the other side of the bath, reclining against a column. She knelt at the side of the bath near Arcade and whispered, "What would you say if I told you we could get out of here?"

At the sound of her voice, Arcade blinked in startlement, and groped at the side of the bath for his glasses. When she handed them over, he slid them up his nose and sighed in relief as his sight returned. "I had an inclination that you wouldn't speak so freely in the presence of soldiers, but one can never be too certain. And I wouldn't be surprised if you're asking me this at Caesar's behest. He'd certainly reward a slave who caught another trying to escape."

Her eyes furrowed at the word "behest," although she didn't ask about it. "Caesar doesn't reward female slaves. Anyone gets caught, we're doing our job. If a soldier catches them, though, he'll probably get promoted." Lowering her voice even further so that the other slaves around the bath would not hear, she added, "Most of them have nothing to go back to even if they did leave. But my family's alive, or they were when I was captured. Even if you don't come with me, I'm going."

"Fair enough," said Arcade, "but I fail to see any possible escape. Guards surround me day and night. Wouldn't it improve your odds to travel alone?"

Before he finished, she was shaking her head. "A month from now, they'll have the Festival of Mars. Caesar invites every soldier to a feast, where there is drinking and dancing."

"Ah, Equirria. I had wondered if they would commemorate that antiquated ceremony here. But Caesar will surely require us to serve there, or he'll at least have me attending." He pointed at one of the towels and Cara handed it to him at once. Standing up from the bath to wrap it around his waist, he marveled at the irony of a slave serving another slave. "Unless…unless the drinking and dancing provides our opportunity?"

Lines creased the corners of her eyes as she grinned and clasped her hands together in excitement. "Yes. After dinner, they hold fights in the arena and celebrate the champion. Titus will have to bring you back to your tent because slaves are forbidden to attend. There may be a few other soldiers around to guard the other slaves, but not many, and they won't be happy about missing the main event. They'll be sharing drinks and slaves like me all night. I'll come with you and Titus, and I'll offer him wine that'll put him out in no time. I can mix the powder just right to make these men sleep for hours."

She spoke hurriedly, her words running together, and Arcade paused to collect his thoughts. Now dry, he slid into his new clothes, combing his hair back with his hands. "An audacious plan, but it relies on a few too many variables. What if Caesar wants me to attend at the celebration? It's not likely, but we can't rule out the possibility. Or if even one guard stays at his post, he may notice us and alert the others."

"If Caesar keeps you there, I'll go without you. If guards are out, which they never are, I'll go unless there's no possible way to sneak around them. And then I'll wait for the next one, and try then."

Only one question still nagged at his mind, despite his impatience to agree that the plan was foolproof. "If you're so sure it'll work, why hasn't anyone attempted it before?"

"Only Siri knew the secrets of mixing herbs for the wine, and she was practically raised here. She gave up hope of escape probably before I was born. But a few weeks ago, one of my father's friends, a trader, came through here for the first time, and he told me about the poison. Of course, if I used it on a couple of soldiers any other day, I wouldn't get far. But if Titus is the only soldier around…."

Finally convinced, Arcade smiled. After all, he'd witnessed the speed with which she fled his tent when a soldier appeared. If anything, he would be the one to slow her down. "I'm pleased to admit that I underestimated you."

At that moment, he noticed Titus heading over to them, and raised his voice. "This really is a stunning establishment, especially out in the middle of this Wasteland. Even the baths in New Vegas can't compare. Caesar should be proud."

"Come on," said Titus. "You took more than enough time, and the Legate is not a patient man."

"Truer words were never spoken," Arcade replied. Cheerful at the prospect of Cara's offer, he squared his shoulders and walked at Titus' side rather than behind the soldier. Even with the hope of escape, though, he predicted that the banquet would be a bore and an aggravation at best. At worst, and if he failed to hold his tongue, it was an opportunity to lose his head. Caesar was already on edge after the conflict with the NCR troops, and with Lanius and Arcade at his table, his stress would only be multiplied.

When Arcade entered the tent, a slave pulled back a chair for him to sit down. He felt vaguely odd at being served again by a slave, but didn't dare utter a word. On his right, Caesar sat at one end of the table, and Vulpes Inculta sat at Arcade's left. For the most part, he was surrounded by unrecognizable legionnaires, probably from Lanius' camp. Naturally, Vulpes curved his lips in what might have been intended to be a smirk, but Arcade couldn't be sure as he grimaced in a failed attempt to return the greeting. He wished that Lucius could have sat near him instead, because at least the man was more easily tolerable, but Vulpes provoked him like no other.

The slaves had already provided utensils, and one set a basket of fruit in the middle of the table before pouring two glasses for each attendee, one with water and one with wine. The soldiers thanked Mars before they reached for the fruit, murmuring, "_Mars pater te precor quaesoque ut sies volens propitius mihi domo mea_…." Arcade recognized the ancient Roman prayer, another one of Caesar's predictable thefts from Cato.

"When did you begin to allow slaves to dine at your table?" asked the Legate.

Vulpes Inculta nodded and said, "I did wonder the same." Suppressing a sigh, Arcade thought, _This is going to be a long night_.

"You're not looking at an ordinary slave. Gannon oversees the health of every soldier in the Fort," said Caesar, narrowed eyes betraying the casual tone. "Now tell me, Legatus, have your men completed their task at Freeside?"

With a grin that contrasted with the harsh mask he wore, Lanius replied, "We have finally completed the purification of Freeside. The Van Graff family has been terminated, along with the men who called themselves the Kings. There is a chance that some of them may have escaped, but my soldiers pursue them as we speak, and any threat they once posed has been extinguished."

"That's what I like to hear," said Caesar. "And I assume a similar fate has befallen the Followers of the Apocalypse?"

As he spoke the words, he stared at Arcade, whose fingers suddenly tightened around a silver fork.

"They are no more," said the Legate. "They were unable to even provide good sport in combat."

_It was inevitable_, Arcade told himself. If he hadn't heard it from Lanius, he could have assumed that the Followers would be driven out of Freeside eventually. Still, that didn't make the news any easier to hear, and it did nothing for his anger. "Of course they didn't fight," he broke in. "They're a pacifist organization, dedicated to helping the people of—"

"Slaves should be neither seen nor heard," said Vulpes Inculta. Arcade only remained sitting in his chair because Caesar curled his fist and glared at Arcade.

"I applaud your success, Legatus," said Lucius, and Arcade wished that he could thank the man for changing the subject.

With a nod, Caesar said, "As do I. The Great Khans are still under our control, I trust?"

"Of course. Their men have proven to be excellent slaves, and I have allowed the strongest among them to fight alongside our troops. The women will bear us many fine soldiers." Again, Arcade fought the urge to speak up.

For the remainder of the dinner, Caesar questioned the Legate as to the condition of his camp, and the state of their alliances with other factions. The White Glove Society was eating people again, Arcade noted, and apparently the Legion considered that to be a good thing somehow. Most of the Powder Gangers had either been killed or vanished, and the Brotherhood of Steel had been purged before the Legion had even assumed power in New Vegas. "And I trust that the Boomers remain submissive as ever?"

The Legate's tone darkened, although no one could see his expression under the glaring mask. "While the Boomers formerly displayed perfect obedience, there has been dissent among their ranks. A man named Jack has fled north and plans to assault our camp, but they are far too few in number to pose a danger. If they should attack, we will exterminate them in a matter of hours."

"Somehow, your words provide little comfort when I consider the vast army of explosives at their disposal." Though Caesar carefully steadied his voice, his jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly in what Arcade knew to be a sure sign of his rising temper. "Had I been informed of this disturbance, I never would have called you away from your camp."

"My centurions, August and Octavius, will lead in my absence. It pains me to miss a battle, but these few Boomers will not even provide good sport, pathetic in number as they are."

"You are my finest soldier, Lanius. I trust your judgment." The subject apparently closed, Caesar sipped from a glass of wine for what seemed like nearly a minute before he spoke again. "Tomorrow, before you depart, you will demonstrate your expertise to the youth. All have heard stories of your prowess in battle, but I have heard that many believe the stories to be more legend than truth. Prove them otherwise."

"It would be an honor," said Lanius in his familiar growl, and Arcade forced back a shudder as he considered what such a "demonstration" might entail. Though the younger soldiers grew accustomed to violence at an early age, he still pitied the ones who were not prepared to witness the brutality of the Legate. "Shall I make an example of any among them in the arena?"

At those words, Arcade visibly cringed, a movement that would never have escaped Vulpes' notice. The man's eyes, predictably narrowed, pierced directly at Arcade the instant he stirred. Before Vulpes could speak, Caesar replied, "No, that won't be necessary."

"I believe Gannon has something to add?" said Vulpes, his eyes never shifting from Arcade's.

The doctor summoned every ounce of nerve in him to meet Vulpes' gaze. Possible replies swarmed in Arcade's mind, but he could only force out, "No—nothing."

After the dinner, Caesar dismissed a few of the soldiers, but ordered that Arcade, Vulpes, and Lucius to remain in his tent. As for as Arcade knew, Lucius and Vulpes never left. With the tip of his fingers, Caesar massaged his head, and muttered curses under his breath. "Tell me, Lucius, Vulpes—should I be worried?"

Lucius paced back and forth across the tent, apparently just as troubled by the Legate's report. "Permission to speak freely, Caesar?"

"I wouldn't have asked the damn question if I didn't want an answer."

"Legatus Lanius displayed poor judgment. He should not have omitted that information when you requested his presence here."

"I conur with Lucius," Vulpes said smoothly, as he said everything.

"And what do you think of this turn of events, Arcade?"

Folding his hands in front of him, Arcade said, "The Legate has proven himself a formidable opponent in battle, but his strategic skill will only weaken if he is left to his own devices."

"Hmm. I'll consider your counsel." Caesar rested his head against the back of his throne. Pointing to a stack of books that permanently resided in one corner, he said, "Read one of those. I don't care which." Dark circles and wrinkles surrounded his eyes, pronounced like they had been when he suffered the pains of his tumor.

From _Paradise Lost_, Arcade read aloud a passage that illustrated the magnificence of Heaven, and he wondered what Caesar thought of the description. After all, the self-proclaimed incarnation of Mars prized only blood and victory in battle, and should have scorned the flowery passages that depicted a state of perfect peace and beauty.

But despite Caesar's unrelenting intelligence and capacity for argument, the constant emergencies of the past few days had sapped every remainder of his strength. As Arcade continued, his stamina improved from prior readings that lasted into the early morning hours, Caesar did not utter a word, but only stared straight ahead and listened. While Arcade read, occasionally tripping over a particularly challenging phrase, he recalled how David had once strummed chords on a harp to soothe King Saul's distress. Though the sound of Arcade's voice could not quite match that beauty, Milton's work was music to his own ears, at least.

Somewhere around the second half of _Paradise Lost, _Arcade noticed that Lucius and Vulpes had retired for the night. Obviously, they were not half so entranced by the poetry as Caesar. Arcade found himself wondering why Caesar bothered to appreciate the poem at all, especially since he would have certainly mocked any of his soldiers for penning similar writing, if he taught them to write at all. When Caesar's heavy-lidded eyes finally sagged shut as well, Arcade paused for a moment and gingerly pressed the book closed. So hushed that Arcade could barely hear the orders, Caesar murmured, "Did I tell you to stop?"

Amused almost to the point of laughter, Arcade swallowed back a response, and his parched throat stung in return as he flipped to the next page. At the end of the day, Caesar was just another weary soldier that feared the future like any other man, and moreover, he valued classic literature as his only means of escape.

But before understanding could creep its way into Arcade, his eyes drifted to a spot on the floor of the tent where blood had dried, months or even years past. The dull throb of hatred sunk back as his fingers gripping harder around the edges of the book.

**UPDATE**: Several reviewers have pointed out some glaring inaccuracies in this fanfic. Some things might be more subjective and minor than others, but a few errors are major and render entire plot points implausible. I think that I may have focused so much on certain aspects of the story, like Arcade's character, that I didn't check the cannon as much as I should have. Regardless of the reason, it's impossible to go back and fix everything at this point, and I can't continue writing while knowing that most of my plot is based on mistakes. That's why I've chosen to discontinue this story.


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